Singing The Blues Poem by Christopher Woodall

My girl with her blue eyes in the night
Stares with the passivity of Scottish mountains
And the urgency of emergency light;

As intricate in languor as Italian fountains,
Her eyes in passion can be huge as the moon
And as plain and as undoubted;

The wide sky on a Winter’s afternoon
Is not so blue, or the air in the early morning
Which makes a mystery of our room;

They are as blue as the snow falling,
As glass, as clean sheets of writing paper;
They are explicit, they are a warning

And they are puritanical, they are safer
Than my thoughts, they are as blue as the truth,
They are as blue as green, and they make her

A window on distances of age and youth,
And out of her is handed an everlasting surprise;
They are a steadfast working class blue

Of fiery Royal blood comprised,
The Virgin Mary’s cloak and Krishna’s skin both
Are copied from those eyes.